


You and Me, Come Whatever

by Nina36



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 13, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 10:07:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14767562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina36/pseuds/Nina36
Summary: He has no idea how long it’s been since he said yes. It could be days, months, eons – time is meaningless in that warm, dark place Michael put him in – better than being chained to a comet, as Jimmy Novak once said – better than watching Sammy die or having to leave him, better than being Alistair’s apt pupil.





	You and Me, Come Whatever

He prays, he begs, he threatens.

Being Michael’s vessel is not worse than some of the shit he has been through.

Back then, in the 70s, about a bazillion of years before – damn, it feels he has lived a million of lifetimes – he is so fucking tired  - he wasn’t kidding with Sam, if he knew the world was safe he would retire in a heartbeat – his dad said yes to Michael to protect his wife. He is John Winchester's son, after all.

Except – except that Michael is at the wheel, now.

Crowley used to honour his deals, but Michael, being an Archangel and a dick, didn’t.

He prays, he begs, he threatens.

He prays.

He didn’t say yes, at the time. He has had time to mull over his choices – especially after Sammy fell into that gaping hole and he had to live without him because he couldn’t say a fucking word.

 _Yes_.

He said yes, and he doesn’t regret it. He finally, _finally_ wasted Lucifer – with Sammy’s help and he cannot regret that. He will _never_ regret that!

He begs – he bargains, but he has nothing to offer, not really. His soul is far from being pristine, his body is a mess of scars and a lifetime of battles, alcohol and a generally hard life. And yet, he tries.

Michael listens, pauses, eventually. He doesn’t understand – not at first, at least.

He is – _was_ a brother, however.

Michael can read right through him. He knows him – and it’s weird, he is supposed to hate the son of a bitch, but he can’t, not really because they fit. Gabriel was right when he said that he was born to do that.

And yet, he doesn’t relent. He wouldn’t be Dean Winchester. He wouldn’t be the man he is – flaws and blood and a consuming, all-encompassing love for his little brother (he is more than that, has been forever, will always, _always_ be).

Michael wears sharp clothes, he walks like he owns the world, and he can have it all – for now. He just needs one thing.

One.

“Let me say goodbye.”

He asks. Over and over. He becomes white noise, he becomes a pain in the ass, he is Michael’s vessel and he learns to use it pretty soon.

He isn’t strong enough to overpower him (cannot think about _that,_ not when he is listening, smelling, feeling _everything_ ), but he can try.

“Please!” He begs.

He has no idea how long it’s been since he said yes. It could be days, months, aeons – time is meaningless in that warm, dark place Michael put him in – better than being chained to a comet, as Jimmy Novak once said – better than watching Sammy die or having to leave him, better than being Alistair’s apt pupil.

Michael listens. Michael is God’s sword, but God is off somewhere sorting things out with his sister and he has wasted Lucifer and if someone had told him, before he went to Stanford after his dad disappeared, about all that angel crap he would have – gone anyway, he would have made things better, he would have saved Sam.

He would always save Sam.

“You are a pain in my ass!” Michael says. He has made his hands shake, his knees buckle, he has dropped a blade and he would fucking off himself just to make the Archangel understand that he means business.

“I am your perfect vessel, it comes with perks.” He bluffs.

He said yes to save Sam and Jack – he said yes because he should have done so years before, but he was younger, he had still felt in hell, he had still felt Alistair’s voice taunting him.

In the end, Sammy saved the world and broke his heart and he regrets that day with every fibre of his being.

“It’s not happening,” Michael says.

Doesn’t he know? Haven’t they learned their lesson, yet? Crowley, for all his faults, knew that. Castiel still has moments, but Archangels just don’t learn, apparently.

“I’m not giving up!” He says. He threatens.

“It’s still not happening,” Michael says.

“How would you like to spend your life as a tetraplegic?” He asks.

He can do it. They both know he can.  Michael can heal himself and he can invent some new ways to destroy the meat suit– they can do that for all eternity for all he cares.

“I’d make you feel every second of it,” Michael replies.

He laughs. Last time he was scared of pain he was a freshly minted hunter.

“Let me say goodbye.” He asks. Begs. Pleads.

Michael is not Lucifer. He is _not_ stupid.

“On my terms.” He eventually says.

And God, what is he wearing?

“I’m listening.” He says.

No. He is not Lucifer. Definitely. But he’ll take what he can get.

 

* * *

 

 

Angel radio is eerily silent. Castiel has disappeared. In other moments Sam would, perhaps, give more than a crap about his friend’s state of mind about Dean, but right now he can’t.

Jack is resting – it remains to be seen whether he’ll get back some of his powers, but Sam cannot bring himself to care. He loves the kid, he truly does, he loves him like the son – he will never have, but Dean – Dean –

He is everywhere, in every room, every object, word and damned molecule surrounding him.

What they have has ceased to be something he fights against. What they have is _everything._ He is family, he is his best friend, his conscience, his strength, his lover, his soulmate, his weakness and reason to keep fighting.

Dean said he was thinking about retirement and for a moment, before things got messy, as per usual, he thought about it as well – he thought about days filled with books, music, friends, research and just Dean and him together.

He thought about them driving each other crazy, about taking the Impala and just driving, watching the stars together and _be,_ like they used to do.

Dean said yes to save him. He is not surprised, he is not angry, he would have done the same – he has done the same.

He misses Dean. It’s as simple as that. He knows – because he is not stupid that what they have is dysfunctional, but he has made his peace with it a long time before.

Mom and Bobby (he is not the same – but goddamn, it’s good, so good to have him back) either don’t know or pretend not to. He is past the point of caring. It’s none of their business anyway.

 All he cares about is bringing Dean back. He knows he can. They have beaten impossible odds. He has been there, he knows that if he can just _touch_ Dean, if he can look at him he can bring him back, just like Dean brought him back that day, at Stull’s cemetery.

He can. He will.

* * *

 

 

He knows that place. He knows that Church. It takes just a look to know that he is in a dream. Well, the fact that he’s seeing himself weakened by the trials confronting Dean is sort of a dead giveaway.

He was there, in that Church, and he confessed all his sins, the greatest of which it’s still the same to this day. Letting Dean down. That was before – before words, he said out of anger, before Dean took upon himself the mark of Cain, before – he died, before he understood with final certainty that his place was at Dean’s side, that they would truly be together come whatever.

Dean – has not the mark, yet. He has not said yes to Michael, he has not become a demon.

For him. Everything he has done since he made a deal at that crossroad and even before that is for him. And he gets it, now. It doesn’t scare him any longer. Dean loves like he hunts; with everything he has got: body, mind and soul. Dean cannot lose him as much as he, Samuel Winchester, can lose him.

They will destroy the world, one day, they almost have. But it hasn’t happened, not yet. Not in that Church.

“Sammy,” Dean says.

He cannot see him. Rather, he can see his brother, pleading with his younger self that there is nothing past or present that he would put in front of him. He still hasn’t prayed for angels to come to the rescue, he still hasn’t lied to him or met Cain.

He wishes he could tell _that_ Dean not to believe him when he is angry and wounded, not to take Cain’s mark, he wishes he could tell his younger self to just hold Dean, tell him over and over that he loves him, that losing him made him lose his mind and he was a coward, but that he is not like that anymore.

“Dean.” He says.

He cannot see Dean, but he knows he’s close.

Where is he? How is he?

“I stuck a deal with the dickbag,” Dean says, almost reading his mind.

Is he? He doesn’t know, doesn’t care. Boundaries have stopped having any meaning a long time before. He is Dean’s. If he is really here who the fuck cares whether he is in his dreams? He’s been there since he was sixteen, anyway, in one way or another.

“Where are you?” He asks, but that’s not what he wants to know.

“Sorry, man, can’t tell or the moron will zap me outta here,” Dean says.

He did it. He found a way back to him.

He always does. It shouldn’t really surprise him, after all that time, but it does.

It’s Dean – and he is his Sammy, he will always, _always_ worship him. Dean will always be his hero, his big brother, his soulmate, the love of his life.

He nods. He doesn’t even know whether Dean can see him – he doesn’t even know if they are in the past, in a dream or a sleep-deprived hallucination. He doesn’t care.

“Where are you?” He asks.

He means right there, in that nowhere land, they’re in. Did he fall asleep? Did Michael knock him unconscious?

He doesn’t really care. Not right now. When he wakes up he will analyse every detail, he will research and he will bring Dean back, but it doesn’t matter, now.

“Right behind you – and also over there, begging you not to kill yourself,” Dean says. He sounds amused, he sounds tired. He sounds like _Dean_ and God – God! He missed him!

The first time he ran away for real, when he went to Stanford, it took him months before he could properly breathe – and even then, even after he met Jessica and his grades were brilliant and he was trying to decide whether to study law or anthropology, Dean was still there, a big fat piece of himself missing that he just got very good at pretending it wasn’t there.

After that, each time, got more difficult, every time he lost Dean breathing became almost impossible and his very flesh ached with the need to have him back.

This isn’t any different.

He doesn’t think he has taken a proper breath ever since Dean – Michael disappeared. He doesn’t think he has properly functioned ever since that day.

He turns, and he can breathe – Dean is there – he is _real._ He is as real as he can be under the circumstances, but he is not the man he used to be – neither of them is. He looks at Dean and he knows that it’s just temporary – that he couldn’t breathe either but he knows, feels that somehow, someway, he will get him back. That is not why he is there.

“You look like crap!” Dean says.

He snorts a laugh. He probably does. Dean, on the other hand, looks _magnificent_! Or, perhaps, it’s just the fact that he is head over heels in love with the man in front of him and has been for most of his life.

“You look well.” He says.

“Michael is – “He rolls his eyes, “He is an asshole – can we skip this part? We don’t have much time.”

“How long do we have?” He asks. He wants to know. He wants to know where he is so that he can go and find him, he wants to pray God until He finally gets back from his vacation and actually does something about His son being a dick.

Dean shrugs, “Not a clue. We bargained, I got the short end of the stick.” He is smiling, he is beautiful – and real and he doesn’t understand why he hasn’t moved yet, why neither of them has.

Dean does, eventually. And he is real – whether he’s in a dream, or the past or whatever the hell Michael has come up with, it is _real_. 

Dean is still his stone number one, that hasn’t changed, it will never do.

His arms are strong, his heartbeat reassuring and he can feel it between them.

In the past, he would have asked why he said yes, but he knows better now. He said yes for the same reason why he killed Death and took the mark of Cain and made a deal at a crossroad so long ago.

He did it for him. Just like he has bled, killed and flung himself into a gaping hole –

It’s who they are.

“I’m bringing you back.” He says.

There won’t be brunette demons or veterinarians to distract him, not that time. He won’t rest until Dean is back.

“I know,” Dean says. And he is sincere, he believes him, he trusts him.

Behind them, their past selves are hugging while angels are falling, but they don’t care – they didn’t back then, they don’t know.

“We’re not going to Florida….” He says. And Dean looks confused, for a moment, he looks younger and he _needs_ to kiss him so badly that he suspects it might actually kill him.

“Come again?” Dean asks.

“When we retire – “He says.

Dean nods, “Alright – no books and research 24/7 either. We retire, we kick back and relax, got it?” he says.

He smiles. He wants to tell him that he’ll follow him straight to hell if that’s his idea of retirement, but it’s redundant, and Dean would freak out anyway.

“We just – live.” He says.

“I’d like that,” Dean replies. He’s got closer and – he can’t help smiling at his brother. They’re both lying, they both know and neither of them care one bit.

“Will you kiss me already?” Dean blurts out.

In the past, he would have been the one to make such a statement because Dean couldn’t help being _Dean._ He would have tried to protect him, even after that particular ship had long sailed, but now – he asks, and he is smiling and they don’t have much time, and he knows there is something Dean isn’t telling him, but it will have to wait until they’re reunited.

They’re alone – there is no Jack, no mom, no angels, no demons, no rifts, no crisis (unless Michael decides to nuke the world while they’re in each other’s arms, and Sam can’t care about that, not right now).

“Thought you’d never ask.” He breathes.

“Thought we were past that point - “Dean breathes back, against his lips and Sam closes his eyes.

“What did you bargain?” He asks. He cannot help it, even as the tip of Dean’s tongue has just traced his upper lip, and his fingers are trailing down.

“Doesn’t matter, he won’t nuke the world, not right now – “Dean replies and hisses with pleasure when his fingers snuck inside his trousers.

“Good.” He says.

He means it. It would be highly inappropriate if Michael decided to nuke the world while he fucked his brother.

“Good,” Dean replies.

It’s not about the sex. The sex is good, it has always been, it’s explosive between them because it’s too charged with everything else: love, adoration, their past, their present, the adrenaline that still pumps furiously after hunts even after all those years.

No.

It’s more than that. It’s simple, actually. And it took Sam Winchester a hell of a long time to come to terms with it –

He belongs with Dean: body, blood, flesh, soul, past, present, future, afterlife and, apparently, past events, dreams and everything in between.

He fell in love with Dean when he was a kid, and again when he was in his twenties, while they looked for their father and he was still grieving for his girlfriend.

He fell for Dean, again and again, the last time happened when he grabbed the blade and finally (thank fuck!) he killed Lucifer.

He is falling again, in that nowhere land, when Dean kisses him, and his lips are soft and he smells like coffee and blood and that stupid soap he has in his bathroom that he keeps smelling everywhere in the bunker.

They don't have much time, and it doesn't truly matter what they do, how they bring each other to climax with their hands or mouths; they go months without touching each other, but they know.

He knows that Dean can fuck his way through America but he comes first, that when they touch each other they make love.

He knows that his brother will have to pay the price for that brief reprieve, but that when he finds Michael (and he will!) none of it will matter.

He knows that his body might be in his bedroom, but his soul is right there where he belongs, with Dean.

He knows that Dean is scared for him, that he still feels guilty about stuff that doesn't matter, and he tries to communicate that he needs to be strong, that he isn't running away this time, that he won't do anything stupid; he has a mission – he needs to bring his brother back.

“This is a one time only offer, isn't it?” He asks, later, when he can breathe again and he feels sticky and sated.

Dean shrugs, his eyes are closed and he looks younger.

“I will waste him.” He says.

“I know you will,” Dean replies.

He opens his eyes – moss green that, to this day, still take his breath away, and doesn't say anything.

Outside angels are falling, Dean is perhaps about to pray angels to come to the rescue (because that always works out so well!), and the world is a messy place.

But it doesn't matter.

He can hear Dean's heartbeat, he can hold him. And Dean doesn't tell him to take care of their family, he doesn't need to.

“Do you still have the amulet?” He asks.

He does. They both know that. They have never talked about it, but even his soulless self always kept it with him.

“Yeah,” He replies.

“Thank you -” Dean says.

And there is a part of him, the one that Dean still teases from time to time that is moved to tears hearing those words.

But he smiles because they don’t have much time – and he needs Dean not to worry about him, which is like asking the sun not to rise or the water not to be wet.

“You’re welcome.” He replies. And it’s a promise.

Dean is telling him that the past belongs to the past, that the mistakes they both have made during that period of time don’t matter, he’s telling him – the way Dean does, with words that apparently have nothing to do with what he really means, that _when_ he comes back he wants that thing back – that it’s still and it will always be the both of them against the world.

He kisses Dean when the Church is empty when outside angels have fallen and their younger selves are going to put themselves into yet another mess and it’s like the first time he kissed Dean: tentative and amazing and full of fire and countless days of adoration.

It’s not healthy – loving someone so much, he knows that; they both do. It has killed them both, but it is the only thing worth living for.

“Just do me a favour, Sammy –“Dean asks.

He doesn’t talk. He is not ready to make promises he knows he won’t keep and he hopes Dean won’t ask him to do something stupid like killing Michael while he is still his vessel because that is not going to happen.

“I don’t know what his plans are – he might nuke this world like he did the other, I can’t see that –“Dean says, they’re in each other’s arms (where they belong) and he can hear Dean’s heartbeat.

“I won’t let him.” He says.

“I know – but if – just don’t be a martyr, not this time. He is _not_ Lucifer.”

He wants to tell him that he knows, that he spent enough time with Michael in the cage to know his wrath intimately, but that’s something they don’t really discuss and he hopes Michael never chooses to let Dean see _that._

“It goes both ways.” He says, “Don’t be stupid.”

Dean chuckles, “I don’t even know why I’m telling you – you’ll do what you feel is right.”

He smiles, despite the hammering in his chest because he is noticing how things are fading around him, how Dean’s skin is paler.

No.

No, it’s too soon, he is not ready. They’re soulmates, they’re supposed to share a heaven or a special room in hell or oblivion. It’s not _natural_ not being together.

“Take care of the guys,” Dean says. The _guys_ , their family whether by blood or otherwise.

He nods, remembering the night Dean died and the words he said before being ripped apart by hellhounds.

That is not a goodbye. He will _not_ allow that to happen.

Dean, however, is not the man who said goodbye to him in that house as midnight struck and he still thought that death couldn’t be cheated or ignored.

“I will.” He says.

 

    _Don’t you dare think that there’s anything past or present that I would put in front of you. It’s never been like that, ever._

 

They have made so many mistakes after that night, after the words they said, after being painfully honest with each other to the point where the words they had said had felt like vows. They still feel like them to him.

 

And, perhaps, that is why Dean chose that particular place, that particular moment in time to – meet.

He won’t ask because time is running out and there are millions of things that he wants to tell his brother, but when Dean hugs him, suddenly, he does – he whispers everything in his ear, all the things they usually say in the dark, or when adrenaline is pumping so ferociously in their veins that he has no choice but to talk or he feels he will explode if he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t even expect Dean to reply, he never does, not with words, not the trite ones anyway, but his brother – his whole world, hugs him even tighter and whispers to close his eyes.

He does because it’s Dean and because he hates chick flicks moments and he knows when his brother’s voice breaks and what it means.

“I’m bringing you back, I swear!” He says, over and over. And his limbs ache when he cannot feel Dean any longer, he can’t breathe, but that pain is familiar, even though he still hasn’t learned how to live with it.

He doubts he ever will.

 

* * *

 

He has prayed, he has begged, pleaded, bargained, made promises.

Michael is at the wheel, he has plans, the world is literally his oyster and without Lucifer to create a balance he has no idea about what Michael will do.

He doesn’t talk, doesn’t even move. He doesn’t need to.

When the whole thing with angels and destiny started he read a lot on Michael. Granted, the true Archangel is not like the one depicted in the Bible; like all angels, he’s an overgrown, powerful child throwing a tantrum.

He, however, has been in hell, he has had to live with the aftermath of Stull cemetery, he has been Death, he has been in Purgatory, he has had the mark of Cain on his flesh and been a demon.

He prayed, begged, pleaded, bargained and made promises.

Michael is not Lucifer, but they’ve been cut from the same cloth after all.

He is Michael’s sword, and he has a plan.

He can wait.

He stops praying, begging, pleading and bargaining.

He watches, hears, smells, learns.

He waits.

He’s going back to Sam – it’s not a matter of if, but _when._

Michael can do whatever he wants, he’ll pick up the pieces with Sammy, after.

It’s what they do. It’s who they are.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! It's been years since I last wrote something about Supernatural. I must confess that I'm quite out of the loop about whatever happened in the past few seasons, but I watched the season finale and I just had to write something about it.  
> I still ship Dean and Sam with the burning intensity of a million of suns, and I will always do.  
> This work is unbetaed, and English is still not my language.


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